Friday, August 23, 2013

We’d been
working on the farm last month when we noticed the large flock of resident
Canada geese using the wheat field to the north. The farmer was visibly
perturbed that the birds had imprinted on his field and he knew that later this
year he would have a problem when he tilled it under and the winter wheat
sprouts began to pop up out of the fertile soil. Two hundred geese can do a lot
of damage to a seeded field.

Some local folks,
who walked the road every day for exercise, looked upon the birds as harmless
and beautiful. To the farmer they were a nuisance, destroying his livelihood
and making it more difficult to bring his grains to market, where they would be
turned into bread and beer that the walking people enjoyed when they returned
home.

To my merry band
of Sacred Hunters, the geese were a majestic resource.

Personally, of
all the animals on earth, I feel the strongest kinship with the goose. Maybe
it’s that some people perceive both of us a nuisance, while others see us as wondrous
and communicative beings. I enjoy talking to the geese and have learned more
than twenty distinctly different vocalizations.

Some folks may
think that hunters are only focused on one thing, killing. This is an
oversimplification of a profoundly deep experience.

As dawn begins
to fade from its dark blues and purples into the pastel hues of salmon, sage and
helio, we listen intently for the waking honks of the flock roosting on the bay.
The occasional “Her-Onk” echoes over the brightening gold landscape. We tuck
our heads down into the layout blinds, camouflaged in wheat stalks. We are
surrounded by full-body decoys with velvet-flocked heads in multiple positions,
each displaying a specific posture to an incoming flock.

We wait.

When we finally
decide that they may not show up for a while, we decide to pour a cup of french
roast coffee with maple syrup out of the shiny thermos with the Ducks Unlimited
logo on it. One of my closest hunting partners, J0hn, offers up the ubiquitous
cruellers. It’s an annual ritual to watch the sun come up and share laughter,
donuts and coffee with my crew. As another hunting partner, Larry, passes the
chrome-plated cup to me, we both hear the sound. “Herrrrrp.”

It is too close.

There is a bird
in the air and he sees us sitting upright and sharing our breakfast. “Busted!”
I proclaim, as he glides over us from behind and pumps his powerful wings,
carrying him to the distant horizon.

“Let’s hope he
doesn’t go to the bay flock and tell them what he saw!” says another hunting
buddy, Chris. We must be more careful. Coffee and donuts are stored beneath the
fabric doors of the blind and we slink back down into our camo caves.

Fifteen minutes
pass and we start thinking that maybe he did tattle on us. We begin to relax
again when our mentee, Zack, spots a flock of a dozen against the trees to the
north. They are not calling. “Flag ‘Em!” I whisper. My friend, Chris, begins to
wave the goose shaped black, brown and white flag with zestful enthusiasm,
flapping the wings as if to imitate a bird landing in the spread. “No calling,” I whisper again. “When they get in close enough, let’s hit ‘em with a feeding
murmur and a gentle spit cluck or two, OK?”

The birds turn,
a good ½ mile away and begin a beeline for our field. In less than a minute they
are a mere 300 yards out, cupping their mighty wings and waffling air through
their primaries, dropping altitude. “One more flag sequence, then set it down,” I instruct Chris. He does a quick 3 flaps and sets the flag on the ground.

They are now 150
yards out and my heart is pounding through my chest. I can feel it in my ears,
thumping with excitement.

“Feeding murmur
and gentle clucks” I command the troops. As if we were sitting at the Old Brick
Store, conversing with the locals, the birds begin to talk back to us.
“Her-her-onk Er-er-er-er” they reply.
Black patent leather feet drop from their bodies, like aircraft dropping their
landing gear.

“Get ready
gentlemen!” I call out.

As the giant
geese begin to back pedal at the foot of the decoy spread, I say to myself
“Great Spirit, please help us to shoot straight.”

I call out loud
“Take ‘Em!” and the valley erupts in the percussive rhythm of hunting history.
We are here to participate in the cycle of life.

6 birds are
down. We rush out of our blinds to pick them up as the remainder of the flock
lights out for the lake, sounding the alarm. We watch them fly over the horizon
and drop down toward the bay.

Before they
disappear over the hill Larry calls out “More geese! 3 o’clock!” We scurry back
to the blinds and jump in. The birds are to the East this time, in the rising
sun, and hard to distinguish just above the tree line. “Don’t bother flagging”
I say. “They’ve already caught our motion. They’re talking a lot. Let’s give it
back to them.”

We all begin a
symphony of clucks, moans, hail calls and murmurs. It sounds like Grand Central
at rush hour. They are pumping their massive wings and aiming right at us. When they are 200 yards out they begin to
break off to the south. We pick up the tempo and volume of the calling to a
callback cadence. I feel like my cheeks are going to pop as I blow my call from
deep within using my diaphragm as I was taught by my opera training mentor (that’s
a whole ‘nother story).

Before they
reach the foot of the small mountain to the south, they turn decisively. Are
they going away or toward us? It’s hard to tell.

After a few
seconds it is apparent that they are getting larger not smaller. “Stand up and
flag the heck outta ‘em, Chris!” I say. He crawls out of his blind as my
friend, Larry, leans hard on his call and hammers out a screaming callback
series. “OK. Now get down and let ‘em come in!” The flock of 20 birds circles
us twice, checking out every detail of our spread. They are talking the whole
time, questioning our sincerity. We call back at them in a cacophony of clucks,
moans and murmurs. After the second pass, the lead bird circles north and drops
his feet. He is committed. The rest of the flock follow suit.

Suddenly they
swing right and look like they’re going to leave, but wait, no….they are simply
approaching from the starboard. They will swing in front of us from right to
left. Larry says “That’s my favorite shot.” They begin to cup and glide right
into the sweet spot. Larry says “Whenever you’re ready to call it Bradley” as
if to chide me that I may be waiting too long. But I am waiting for the flock
to pass far enough in front of us that the far left shooter will still have a
shot. Then, in a split second, I realize that I must call the shot NOW!

“Take ‘Em” I
shout.

Bodies spring
into action from beneath the wheat sheathed blinds. Guns pop up into the sky

and ring out their deep resonant booms.

I pick out a bird at the tail end of
the flock and drop him soundly to the ground then turn to pick up a bird that
has already landed and is jumping up off the ground, in an attempt to secure
his escape. I do not even hear the gun fire. But he drops.

This time 7
birds are down. We gather them among cheers and whoops and we hear Chris say
“Did you see that? Larry shot a triple!” Zack says “Carleton shot a double. I
shot one and John shot one. That means that you, Chris, missed!” I chime in. “I
think that Chris and I were shooting at the same bird.” Zack insists “No, I
think he missed!” Everyone looks at Chris and the silence is deafening. Chris
states proudly “I think I shot all those birds with just 3 shots!” We all
laugh.

Our rule is no
matter who shoots, we all share, as long as no one shoots another man’s limit. And
none of it will go to waste.

Within an hour
we have harvested 18 birds among the 5 of us and we all agree that “that is
enough.” This will take us a long time to clean the birds. We use all the
parts. I make a goose liver pate’ out of the livers – sort of a poor man’s
foie’ gras – and a chunky country pate with the hearts and gizzards. We smoke
the breasts and make smoked andouille-style sausage out of the leg meat. The coyotes think that what we leave them is
skimpy and unfair.

As we are
picking up, one lone goose comes gliding in, as if he is choosing to join his
peers in the transformation. I rush back to my blind and grab my gun. As he
passes over the blinds, I take him cleanly with one shot and he drops to the
ground with a thud.

I walk up to him
with respect and admiration.

For a brief
moment I am deeply connected to the spirit of this magnificent creature, our
lives inextricably linked to one another. To live we must take the life of
other beings, sentient or otherwise. “Even the trees and leaves have spirits.
For when one Indian takes of the Earth, he does so with remorse and the
knowledge that he must do so to sustain his people.”As I approach
him I see he has an aluminum band on his leg, designating that he has met
mankind at least once before. I kneel down and put my hand on his chest. He is
expiring. As I look into his eyes I say “Thank you brother.” As his spirit
passes into mine, I pray.

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

When I first started duck
hunting, a friend of mine, a stockbroker (yes I did that too), told me that if
I was considering taking up duck hunting as a primary passion, that I would
need to love maintaining things. Tools, boats, engines, decoys, blinds, dogs,
calls, guns, even the properties I would hunt on. And so, after choosing this
path 30 years ago, I plunged into the deep end of the pool. I have accumulated
an enormous amount of gear over 3 decades and I am not good at selling old
equipment. I just keep adding new stuff.

So now, the month of August
is all about the race to Opening Day. And I love it. Whenever a cool northwest
breeze fluffs the curtains in my bedroom window, and my toes, sticking out of
the bottom sheet, seek the warmth of my dog’s belly, I awaken early. Inhaling
deeply the first breath of the morning, I cannot stay in bed. It may only be
5AM but the full moon is lighting up the yard and confused robins are singing
in the old maple tree on the lawn. I am wide awake. I strain my ears to hear
every sound and from a long distance across the fields, near the pond, I hear
geese. The long lonely Her-onk of a gander calling to his mate in the moonlit
sky to come sit with him and watch the eastern sky turn from black to dark
blue, purple and sage green.

I shuffle down the steps to
the kitchen. The floor is cool and my feet seek the warmth of the throw rug in
front of the coffee maker. The fragrance of fresh coffee has a mesmerizingly
comforting aroma. I pour the brew into my favorite mug, the one with the Canada
goose on it and gingerly raise the hot liquid to my mouth. Life is good and the
day is full of promise.

It’s a Saturday and the To
Do list is long and pleasurable.

About 12 years ago, with no
woodworking experience at all, I built a boat. A Barnegat sneakboat variation
called an Arthur Armstrong Broadbill. It took me 18 months to complete. I often
feel waves of pride when I work on her. This month, I took out the floor and
added a new drain plug, patched a few cracks in the transom and created a drain
system through the ribs. New fastgrass will be ordered shortly and the custom
David Clark canvas blind has had new zippers put in. A segment of the grass
rail along the gunwhale will get replaced. The stern and bow light will be
rewired with some fresh connectors. The fire extinguisher will be replaced and
the PFDs will be checked for tears.

The layout blinds have been
sewn along the edges and winter wheat raffia has been purchased. We will be
tying hanks of the raffia with the new plastic snap swivels that affix the
raffia to the stubble straps of the blinds. This will allow us to lie in a
field of cut wheat or hay and blend in like a small hump in the surface. Less
than 30 days from now we will be lying in a field surrounded by newly flocked
full body goose decoys, calling to distant flocks and flagging them with our
new flag.In the mean time I am busy
preparing all our equipment for “The Season” which starts September 1.

I practice shooting my bow
every night from the tree stand in my back yard. I have pictures on my game
camera that drive me to perfect my skills. There has been a large bear in the
back field recently and I really want a crack at him with my bow. My merry band
of gentlemen and young mentees and I have been practicing shooting our .22s at
the range in anticipation for some squirrel hunts next month.

Duck decoys need to be
washed and anchor lines checked. A new batch of greenwing teal will

be procured
through one of the online catalogs (somehow ½ dozen of these vanished last year
amidst decoy exchanges between friends). Old anchors need to be replaced on
some of the Greenhead Gear mallards. Black duck decoys will be checked for keel
cracks and Mojo spinning ducks have new 9 volt batteries. Electric motors must
be checked and lubed, every nut, bolt, swivel, screw and clip must be checked
for sturdiness. In hunting situations a loose bolt or screw on a tree stand, a
stressed shear pin on a boat, or a loosely tied anchor line can an the
difference between a safe hunt, a night in the hospital or worse.

Guns are checked and
re-checked. Cleaned and re-cleaned. Spit shined and polished. Preparations for
a hunt, in my opinion, should be up to military specs. If not out of respect
for the equipment, then for safety.

I have some harrowing
stories to tell of my early duck hunting days. There were days when I had no
mentor and little understanding of the dangers that lurked from Mother Nature’s
wrath.

One of the first lessons I
learned was to respect the earth and nature. She could embrace us in warmth and
beauty or she could treat us with ruthless indifference to our desire to
survive. A French philosopher once said “Nature cares not for the individual,
but for the survival of a species.” I have learned this lesson first-hand and
am lucky to be alive. Now, when the outdoors calls to me I listen but heed the
lessons I’ve learned; don’t use climber tree stands in the rain on wet bark;
don’t try to cross an open bay in a small low-profile boat when you haven’t
heard the marine forecast; don’t leave camp without a compass or GPS; always
check your drain plug before you load the boat into the water; always have a
game plan if weather changes; and last but not least, the Boy Scout motto; Be
Prepared!

Even with the level of
respect I have learned, I truly do love August, because of the anticipation.
There is so much to do.

I dream every night about
Opening Days. Opening Day of Bear Season. Opening Day of

Squirrel Season,
Opening Day of Resident Goose Season, Opening Day of Rabbit Season, the last
Saturday of September and the Glorious Opening Day of Partridge (I like to call
‘em partridge instead of by their correct name – Ruffed Grouse – just to irritate
the snobs). And sometimes just to pretend I’m fancy, I’ll call ‘em by their
Latin name, Bonasa Umbellus. People who refer to them by this name usually
carry shotguns far more expensive than anything I own. Then there is Opening
Day of the First Half of Duck Season, which usually sends me into a conflict about
the overlapping days with Opening Day of Archery Season, Opening Day of the
Second Half of Duck Season, Opening Day of Migratory Goose Season, the hallowed
Opening Day of Rifle Season for deer and one of these years, if the Great
Spirit blesses me with the right lottery ticket number, Opening Day of Moose
Season.

I may seem to be rambling,
but forgive me, it’s August, and next month begins the most beloved and sacred
time of the year.

From here on in, I will find
myself waking up in the middle of the night when the curtains blow over the
windowsill and that haunting ethereal sound of geese in the moonlight
penetrates my semi-conscious soul.

Author’s
Note: Next month on Saturday, September 28 at 5:00PM, Sacred Hunter will be
hosting a Hunting Film Festival at the Film House in Burlington at 60 Lake
Street. Tickets will be $15 and there will be a Game Chili Cook Off with prizes
given at Intermission. There will be $100 First Prize.

To
enter the Chili Cook Off or to purchase tickets please go to the website: www.sacredhunter.org. On the bottom of
the page is a “Donate” button. Click this button to pay for your tickets. Any
questions, please direct them to Bradley Carleton at 802-238-6176.